Meeting the Bean
by AkamaiMom
Summary: Glinda's back-and this time she's headed for a very important meeting.  But when things don't go just as expected, will she find help from a stranger?  Sam/Jack established, however this story is very Glinda-centric. Sweet fluff.
1. Chapter 1

_This is another installment in the Glinda chronicles. It is (sort of) a follow-up to my story entitled, "Two Sheets, One Blanket". Many of you have asked when Glinda Baldrich will meet the O'Neill baby. I started out to write that, but I quickly discovered that it wanted to become something more than that—I hope you don't mind. _

_Even though it fits in with the Jack/Sam story line, this is very nearly a Glinda-exclusive story._

**Meeting the Bean—**

**Going Up**

Why did it seem that elevators always took longer going up than down?

Glinda freely admitted that she was no lithe and willowy Twiggy type, but neither was she a hulking Amazonian. She'd stepped alone into the elevator, with her newest purse over one shoulder and a cumbersome paper gift bag suspended by its handles from her wrist. Hardly enough bulk there to slow down the works.

And yet the contraption failed to ascend as speedily as she would have liked, seeming to meander from floor to floor instead of blazing a trail upwards as Glinda had expected it to do. Frowning, she resisted the urge to glance at her watch. Such an action would have demonstrated a high degree of impatience, and Ms. Baldrich had worked diligently throughout her life to rid herself of such undesirable attributes.

She settled with staring at the numbers blinking on the overhead display.

_Garage One. Main. One._

She'd entered the complex through the third level of the underground parking garage. And the floor she needed was the sixth. Nine floors. Nine floors between herself and the object of her visit.

Fighting the urge to sigh, Glinda adjusted the gift bag's braided ribbon handles on her arm, smoothing the sleeve of the brushed cotton jacket she had chosen specifically for this visit. It really hadn't been much of a contest, as her only other jackets were linen or silk—non-launderable and stiff—and that certainly wouldn't do.

Not for a visit such as this.

Because, even though the prevailing image she had of the baby in her head was still that of a rather unimpressive lima bean, she had wanted her first introduction to him to be special, somehow. She'd imagined that her first encounter with him would be an auspicious yet comfortable occasion—not a moment filled with doubt as to one's attire and the suitability of it for the activities certain to be connected to such a moment.

Of course, she might be over-thinking the matter. As the Colonel's due date had neared, Glinda had found herself growing increasingly anxious—hoping that all went as smoothly as possible. Although the doctors and specialists had concurred that the tests showed nary an abnormality, the realist in Glinda knew that nothing was completely set in stone. And she had been present when certain events had occurred that had rendered the pregnancy's complete benignity significantly less than likely.

But the General had sounded so assured the night before when he'd called. So cheerful—his frantic journey to the medical center two evenings prior notwithstanding. So calm.

So—for lack of a more lofty term—_happy_.

Apparently, his introduction to his son had allayed any concerns that the General had previously embraced regarding the prospect of becoming a father again. And though the actual birth had not been the experience he and his wife had both been hoping for—Glinda had heard in the timbre of his voice that he could not have been more satisfied with the result.

Even if he'd neglected to tell her such pertinent statistics as the child's weight and length and name. Things that all civilized humanity knew were necessary tidbits to relay in a phone call announcing the birth of a child.

But then, for all his other admirable qualities and attributes, the General was, still, a _man_. Allowances had to be made.

With a discordant _ding_, the car came to an unceremonious stop, and Glinda was shaken from her thoughts as she frowned upwards at the now-stationary numbers.

Another passenger. Perhaps one wanting to visit the fourth or the fifth floor, thus necessitating another stop before she could reach her goal. The prospect of that cast a shadow on her otherwise anticipatory mood.

As the metallic doors prepared to open, Glinda stepped exactly one length to the right, in accordance with the socially established norm of elevator etiquette. Averting her gaze from the doors to the number pad directly in front of her, she studiously did not make eye contact with the newcomer—an action also well within the realm of proper manners. Those embarking the lift did not normally enjoy being observed doing so, just as those already within the confines of the car did not normally expect to be greeted.

And yet, the newcomer felt it necessary to do so, anyway. As he crossed the threshold of the car, he lifted raised a hand in her direction with a cheery, "Good morning."

Glinda nodded, her eyes still locked on the '6' button, illuminated on the control panel. She did not feel the need to peruse all and sundry of the masses of humanity. She experienced fully enough of that particular joy day to day at the Pentagon.

She did, however, catch a glimpse of him as he bent towards the button display. Recent experiences over the past few months had taught her that it did, indeed, pay to be observant. If he proved to be a mass murderer or kidnapper, she could at least be prepared. She tightened the fingers of her right hand on the straps of her purse, mentally running through certain—_items_— within it that might be of use in such a circumstance.

But the new passenger didn't seem threatening, as much as tacky.

He was a mature man—at least as old as Glinda herself. Certainly old enough to know better than to clothe himself with the style in which he was currently attired. Denim trousers, and a gaudy shirt with some sort of vintage automobile printed on it, along with palm trees and—Glinda squinted to be sure she was seeing correctly—_hula girls_. The shirt wasn't buttoned, but instead flapped open to reveal a tee-shirt underneath—a tee-shirt upon which was emblazoned a fish with the words 'Carp Diem' underneath. And then—she just _had_ to know—her natural curiosity winning the day as she looked downward towards his feet.

Sandals. With. Socks.

Oh, the humanity.

She felt her eyes widen as he angled forward, crowding her with his large frame as he leaned to see the control panel. He bypassed the numbers all together and clicked only the 'door close' button—the action being completed with a bit of a flourish. Then, apparently satisfied, he straightened, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Rocking back on his heels, he turned slightly to look at her. And his look was—quite frankly—appraising.

Glinda wasn't quite sure how to take that.

"Six, huh?"

She moved her head just enough so that she could fix her gaze upon him, raising an eyebrow in a manner that had never failed to put men just such as this one firmly in their place. "As you see."

"Maternity." He nodded jovially, apparently immune to the power of her eyebrow. "Me too."

What possible business he could have on that particular floor, she didn't know. Nevertheless, etiquette decreed that she proffer something in way of a response. "Oh."

The elevator jerked into action, and Glinda breathed a tiny, demure sigh of relief.

"Grandbaby?"

Glinda adjusted the ribbons on her forearm again. "No."

"Godchild?"

"No."

"Great-something or other?"

Glinda felt her curls bobble as she turned her head to the side to face him fully. "Pardon me?"

"You know—great-niece. Great-nephew." The man shrugged, scratching absently at his nose with the back of his index finger. "Folks our age are into the 'greats', now, aren't we? Not so much the normal nieces and nephews, anymore."

"I hardly claim to know what your age is, sir."

He pointed at his cranium, where graying hair had gathered around the back of his head and over his ears, leaving the top quite remarkably shiny. "Chrome dome doesn't give it away?"

Glinda harrumphed. "Male pattern baldness is hardly as indicative of age as it is of genetics."

He smiled, revealing even white teeth. "That would be from my mother's side. Her father was bald as a coot."

"I see." Surely that would be enough of an answer. She glared at the panel above the door, where the counter had just turned from 'two' to 'three'.

"Although, I've always wondered what a 'coot' was. It kind of sounds like 'racoon', but surely the shortened version of that word would be 'coon' and not 'coot', and they're really hairy, aren't they? So it wouldn't make sense for that to be the origin of the phrase." He took a quarter turn towards her. "I've always preferred to refer to myself as 'taller than my hair', but my daughter says that's not as funny as 'follically challenged'. She has a thing about political correctness. Likes to make fun."

Despite her annoyance, Glinda found herself asking the question that popped into her head. "Why can't you just say 'balding'?"

He sucked in a breath between those admirable teeth, his eyes narrowing on what could only be termed a twinkle. "Because that would be boring."

"And boring, apparently, is bad?"

He waggled his eyebrows. "Well, I do have a reputation to maintain."

Glinda refused to ask exactly what it might be. She returned her attention to the panel in front of her.

"So, you must be here visiting friends."

Glinda nodded stiffly. "My boss's wife has recently given birth to their first child."

The man gestured towards the bag over her arm. "And you brought them a present."

"As you can see."

"A blanket?"

Oh, heaven—bless the ignorant. Her voice carried a little more patience as she corrected him. "A _quilt_."

"Ah." He said, as if he completely understood the distinction. He returned his attention to the numbers over the door. "I think we're here."

And with that, the elevator came to a jarring halt, and Glinda waited awkwardly for the doors to open.

Proper elevator etiquette would have decreed that the man take a full step either backwards or to his left in order to accommodate Glinda's disembarkation, but he did neither. He simply stood, hands in his pockets, as she sidled past him and stepped into the hall. As soon as she was clear of the car, he followed her.

With a tepid, but polite, smile, Glinda inclined her head and prepared herself to continue on down the hall, but the man's ready grin stopped her.

"See you around." He nodded, waved, and then—incredibly—_winked_ at her.

"I doubt it." Glinda turned her body halfway and peered at him along the length of her nose. "But just so that you know, a 'coot' is a water bird that has a unique white spot on its forehead. In Old English, the world 'bald' did not mean 'hairless' as much as 'streaked or marked with white'. The bird then, with its white markings, was considered 'bald'—or 'marked'. The phrase has been around since the mid-fifteenth century, when it was employed in a work entitled 'Chronicle of Troy'."

"Wow." The man chuckled. "Thanks. I'd really wondered about that."

"Well, sir," Glinda inclined her head graciously. "I've always believed that the sharing of knowledge is its own reward."

And with that, she pivoted on her sensible heel and stalked down the hall.

-OOOOOOO-

_And just as a quick afterthought: I have personally given birth to five children. I have taken those moments and tried to portray them as realistically as possible, while still maintaining some measure of entertainment value. While we're not delving into the nitty-gritty of birthing (and/or the aftermath) in this story—all of this is drawn directly from my own experiences with the process. I hereby apologize if I destroy any of your carefully constructed delusions. _


	2. Second Thoughts

_**Meeting the Bean—**_

_**Second Thoughts**_

It took a moment to find the room. The halls—all painted a puny shade of pink—appeared to be completely unremarkable one from another. The General had told her the room number, however, so she navigated from hall to hall until she finally came upon a door that had the Colonel's name taped to the sign next to it.

But once there, she hesitated. Questioned why she was there, at all.

To bring the gift, obviously. But she could have mailed it—or brought the present to work and left it in the General's office. But now that she was here, at the door, she wondered if perhaps she weren't a little out of place. Expecting something that wasn't her right to expect.

It wasn't so much that she didn't want to meet the baby, but rather that she was afraid of intruding upon so personal a time for the new family. The O'Neills had been nothing but kind—she'd been invited to every holiday and family gathering in the months that had stretched between her adventure and now. But this was something entirely new—a baby! So very, very personal. And suddenly, she wondered whether she was overstepping some unseen boundary in feeling the connection that she'd come to treasure.

But retreat wasn't an option, either. The General knew she'd planned to come this morning, and had quite possibly told his wife. Reneging on the visit would be the height of uncouth.

Listening at the door, Glinda tried to make sense of the sounds coming from within, but to no avail—hospitals weren't quiet places, and this ward, with the myriad squalling babies and clanking doors and braying televisions—seemed noisier than most.

It seemed that there was nothing she could do but enter. Pinning a confident smile on her face, she gave the wide panel a smart rap, and then waited for the barest of seconds before pressing on the handle and gently pushing the door open.

A curtain partially obscured the room, and Glinda approached it with some degree of apprehension. She heard small noises—a grunting of some sort, and a woman's soft sigh. Fabric moving on fabric—and a squeak as a body adjusted itself on the bed.

After a brief hesitation, Glinda cleared her throat. "Colonel Carter?"

"Oh, please tell me you're here with food." The answering voice—familiar and dear—carried a hint of tiredness somehow ensconced within a shimmer of something wonderful.

"Not quite." Glinda peeked around the curtain without touching it. "It's me."

"Glinda!" Sam erupted into her signature smile—bright and real and warm. "Even better."

Glinda took in the scene with a single glance. The Colonel sat up in bed—in a position that Glinda had once known as 'criss-cross applesauce'. The bed's back had been raised and several pillows situated behind her. She appeared to be wearing two hospital gowns—one backwards, and worn as a robe. Another pillow lay across her lap, upon which she'd rested her arm, in the crook of which lay—

The baby.

Glinda couldn't quite control the gasp that flew to her throat.

So tiny!

He was sleeping. She'd been prepared to see him swaddled, as all the other newborns she'd ever seen had been. But he was, instead, loosely wrapped in a striped blanket, arms flailed wide. As he slept, his chin quivered, and then trembled, and then he made a little noise that sounded like he was sucking his tongue.

Something inside her clenched. "I don't want to wake him. I can come back later."

"No—Glinda—please. Sit." Sam nodded toward the chair that sat next to the bed. "Really. I hate being in hospitals—and I'm dying for someone to talk to. And besides, I could use your help right now, anyway."

Glinda moved towards the chair and sat, leaning down to put her purse and the gift bag on the floor next to her. "My help?"

"You see—and I know that you just got here, so please forgive me—but I'm dying for a shower. I didn't feel like taking one yesterday, and first thing this morning, Jack had to go back to Capitol Hill." Her blue eyes widened. "And if I don't get some of this grime off me, I'm going to go nuts."

"But you seem—"

"Greasy hair." Sam tilted her head so that Glinda could see the purported grunge. "And I stink. And the whole process is—" here, the Colonel searched for the right word—"_ickier_ than I thought it would be."

"Icky?"

"Icky. You really don't want to know." She glanced at the baby before scooching over to the edge of the bed, moving the pillow to the side. "So, I hate to ask, but do you mind? I mean, you're here to see _him_, right? His parents, at this point, are purely incidental."

Glinda turned her attention back to the baby, laying so peacefully in his mother's arms. "I've never held a baby before."

"Really?" Sam looked honestly surprised by that tidbit. "Well, it's easy. I must admit I hadn't had any experience until Vala had the twins. And once you get the hang of it—" Her voice trailed off on a hopeful note.

"Isn't there normally a bassinette of some sort in which we might put him?"

"Yeah." Sam shrugged—a rueful expression, at best. "He kind of exploded on it. A nurse's aide took it to clean it out."

"Exploded?"

"Poo." Her blue eyes shined as she grimaced. "Apparently, they're born full of it. Who knew?"

"Certainly not I."

"Me, either." Sam tilted her head down. "So? What do you say?"

Glinda looked from Sam's face back to the infant she held. While appreciating the precious nature of babies in a general sense, Glinda had never really become the kind of person to dote on babies in specific. She'd made countless baby blankets and crib quilts which she'd given as gifts or donated to charity, but the actual practices of cuddling and cooing had been left to those with more motherly attributes than she herself possessed.

She'd decided somewhere in her fortieth year that perhaps it was for the best that she hadn't been blessed with children of her own. She seemed to lack the sweetness and softness necessary for being a truly devoted mother. Maybe there was a time when it because too late to learn.

But this baby—this particular baby— she _wanted_ to hold him, despite her normal trepidation. Had been _waiting_ to hold him. To make sure that he was real, and healthy, and alive. And selfishly, she yearned to share somehow in the blessing that he was for these people to whom she'd grown so close.

"You're not going to break him."

"I'd be more comfortable if we could lay him somewhere. I'd watch him closely."

"I'd rather you held him." Sam angled a look at her. "He likes being cuddled."

Glinda felt uncomfortably caught. Her calling in life had always been to assist others—but this particular kind of service seemed foreign, and alien, and unfamiliar. And again, she wondered what she was doing there—thrusting herself in where she might not quite belong. Who was she to think that she might have something to offer this child—this child whose parents were, quite literally, people who had saved the planet?

But Sam's eyes narrowed slightly as she made another point. "He'll sleep better if he's held."

And Glinda couldn't come up with anything to counter that. Everyone knew that you didn't wake a sleeping baby. She sighed. "Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt."

Sam shuffled herself around a bit before scooting off the edge of the bed. Bending, she turned the bundle around so that his head would be resting on Glinda's left elbow, and then arranged him in the secretary's arms. He squirmed, then jerked once, his arms flailing outwards wildly before settling back into his sleep.

Sam smiled triumphantly. "See? I told you. He likes you already."

Glinda leaned back in the chair, staring in wonder at the little life she held. His face was reddish, and had tiny little dots that were—she racked her memory for the correct term that her child-bearing friends had used for the malady—infant acne. His eyes appeared to be squished shut—and he didn't seem to have any eyelashes. Or any eyebrows, that Glinda could see. His nose seemed over-large for his face, and his lips—pursed tight—were slightly chapped. He had two chins, and his arms seemed too scrawny to support his enormous hands. His hair started low on his forehead, and curled in dark waves across his head. He already had wrinkles above his nose.

So intent was Glinda on the child she held that she barely noticed Sam gathering the things she needed for a shower. And as Sam disappeared into the bathroom, Glinda carefully peeled back a loose portion of blanket to see the rest of him.

He was long and lanky, and the knee that peeped out of the striped blanket seemed bulbous and disproportionate to the large, skinny foot that dangled below. His skin was wrinkly, and his cheeks seemed swollen, and he was homely and peculiar and appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary at all.

He was perfect.

She smiled down at him, lifting a finger to trace the curve of his ear—so soft! And his cheek—even with the bumps, it felt smooth, and sweet. And his nose flared gently as he breathed. And his fingers were tiny little versions of those sported by his father. And the shape of his jaw, and the breadth of his forehead—yes—the General was well represented in his son.

By the time she heard the shower begin to run, Glinda had fallen irrevocably in love with the newest O'Neill.

She settled further in the chair and tried to imagine what to do next. What did one do while watching a baby sleep? Was cooing appropriate? How exactly was cooing accomplished? She'd seen people interact with newborns, making faces and saying things that sounded like little more than nonsense. But this baby was sleeping—surely he wouldn't expect to be entertained during his nap.

So, she merely watched him. And took the surreptitious sniff now and then. And ran her finger along his ear again, and smoothed back the curls on his forehead. And counted his wrinkled toes. And looked with unsuppressed wonder at the miniature nails on the tips of his fingers. And wondered what color his eyes might be.

He startled, and jerked, and Glinda found herself shushing him, gently rocking her arm in what she hoped was a soothing motion. But his little face seemed to puff up, and first his cheeks, and then his forehead, began to turn a bright red.

His tiny body stiffened, and he started making noises—uncomfortable noises. As if he were—

Glinda froze.

The baby grunted, and strained, and then his face became redder, if that was at all possible, and then he pushed, and—

Suddenly, Glinda understood what the Colonel had been saying when she'd described her son as having had exploded.

And the smell!

She peeled back the blanket to discover that it had escaped the confines of his diaper. She knew her nose was curling, knew she had progressed so far beyond her realm of experience that she was practically tap dancing in space, knew that she had absolutely no idea of what to do next.

With a glowering horror, she realized that she could feel it seeping through the striped blanket.

And, with a sinking feeling of doom, she realized that only thing she'd done right in all this had been to choose the brushed cotton rather than the silk.


	3. Possibilities

_**Meeting the Bean—**_

_**Possibilities**_

Frantically, Glinda looked around the room, but could see no diapers, and none of the pre-moistened wipes that seemed to be omnipresent around babies these days. And of course, the bassinette was gone, too. And she refused to lay this muck—this mess—on the bed—even if it _had_ issued forth out of the child of its occupant. The wild notion came to lay him on the adjustable table that sat at the side of the bed, but that didn't seem appropriate, either.

And how foolish she felt. She'd wanted to be useful to the General and his wife. To be worthy of the honor they'd extended her in gathering her with such warm welcome into their fold. How utterly ridiculous to think that she could handle this burden—this responsibility! She felt her jaw clench, her heart sink.

And how silly she was to be so discombobulated over the prospect of a little bit of excrement.

She stood, and started for the door, determined to cede her charge to a nurse, when suddenly the huge panel swung wide, and a figure entered, pushing—praise be!—the missing bassinette.

Glinda was staring at the cart with such blatant adoration that she didn't pay attention to its deliverer until he spoke.

"Okay—we've got this thing cleaned up for you."

And then, the first thing she noticed was the top of his head. Chrome Dome.

Taller than his hair.

Follically Challenged.

He'd changed—wearing scrubs, now, with an identification badge attached with a clip on his waistband. And Glinda felt like an idiot, standing in the middle of the room holding a baby whose diaper had ceased to both function and matter, without any clue as to how to rectify the situation.

"Whew." The man grinned. "Someone's been working on something, hasn't he?" He slid open a drawer beneath the bassinet and withdrew a diaper and a small package of wipes. "Do you want to take care of this, or shall I?"

When Glinda couldn't seem to muster an answer, he rounded the cart and reached out for the baby. "This little guy seems to be famous around these parts. He's done this a few times, now."

The secretary watched as the man balanced the baby carefully in one arm as he pulled another few blankets out of the drawer and lined the bassinet with them. Laying the baby down on the pile, he grasped the package of wipes and thrust it at Glinda. "Here—pull out a few and hand them to me when I need them."

"How will I know when that is?"

Again, that grin emerged. "Anyone who knows the origin of the word 'coot' can probably figure it out, right?"

She tried to summon up a withering look, but feared that the expression had just looked sickly.

"Meconium." He ripped open the tabs of the diaper and used the front portion to wipe away at the baby's rear. "Nasty stuff. Babies are born with a healthy supply of it, and it comes out for the first few days. This little guy seems to have an abundance of it."

He held out a hand, and Glinda hurriedly opened the package she held and tugged out a wet towelette.

"After a few days," he continued conversationally, as if they weren't casually attending to a baby's nether regions, "they expel it all, and then they start to go a little more normally. Breast-fed babies will have looser, less-stinky movements than their bottle fed comrades, but each baby seems to be different."

He held out his hand again, which Glinda supplied with another wipe.

He finished cleaning and deftly transferred the soiled diaper for a clean one. "I've always thought that little boy babies kind of looked like frogs." With a few practiced motions, he had the new diaper sealed up, and was wiping his hands on another wipie he'd purloined directly from the package. "This one is a perfect example. See? He's got a round tummy and these skinny hopper legs. Long and lean—big without being chunky. I'm guessing eight-five, eight-six, tops."

"Eight-five, what?"

"Pounds." He paused, peering at a pocket at the head of the bassinet, where a gaily decorated index card proclaimed 'Baby O'Neill'. "See there? Weight, eight pounds seven ounces, and length, twenty and a half inches. Good sized kid. But he looks like a frog. The way he's got this round body and those little legs that just stick out like that."

And Glinda could suddenly see what he meant. The child did vaguely resemble an amphibian.

"And now we'll change the shirt." He fiddled around some more in the drawer, withdrawing a clean, white knit piece of clothing, which he adeptly switched with the one that had been soiled. "And whoops—looks like he's lost his LoJack."

"His what?"

The man snooped around in the blanket and came up with a tiny bracelet of sorts, with a little white box attached. "Safety device. Alerts people if the baby is taken off the unit." He had re-secured it around the baby's ankle before he'd finished talking.

With a few more proficient movements, he'd wrapped the infant back up, and then stood, cradling him in his arms as he turned his attention towards Glinda.

"So, I'm taking it that you don't have kids of your own?"

"No." She shook her head. "The Colonel asked me to watch him while she showered."

"Ah."

"And I would assume that you _do_ have children of your own. At least one daughter."

"Two daughters." He looked down at the baby, who had already managed to get one arm out of the blanket. "And five sons."

"Seven!" Glinda had always been good with numbers.

"And I'm up to eighteen grandchildren."

"My goodness."

"Yes." He nodded, his face taking on an expression that could only be described as contentment. "It has been good."

"Your wife must be very proud." Again, she felt foolish—and not just a little nosy. She hadn't noticed a ring. Not that she'd looked, of course.

He smoothed the blanket off the baby's face with a large, square thumb. "She's passed on, now. ALS took her seven years ago."

"I'm sorry."

Glancing up at her, he quirked a brow upward. "Me too. But I'd already retired a few years earlier, so we had some time together before she went. It wasn't easy, but you keep on living, you know?"

"I do." Pure truth.

Silence, filled only peripherally by the sound of running water in the bathroom. The baby had fallen back to sleep, cradled expertly in the large arms of the Follically Challenged.

"So, do you want him back?"

"I'm not sure I should. I didn't comport myself very well when he was left in my care in the first place."

"Babies make you nervous?"

"I've never cared for one." She steadied herself with a deep breath. "But I wanted to care for this one. He's very special. But I'm afraid I failed him."

"He is. And you didn't. And you can learn." He nodded toward the chair. "Sit back down, and I'll give him to you."

She hesitated briefly before obeying him, lowering herself into the seat. He appeared in front of her before she'd settled.

"Arms out."

She held her arms up, and the man bent towards her, adeptly moving his cargo around so that the infant's head was, again, on Glinda's left elbow. And the secretary couldn't help but notice the man's big hands—how gentle they were—how solid—as they arranged the bundle in her arms.

"Now, with babies, you just have to remember that they're just little people. All they want is to be cared about and paid a little attention. They cry and poop and they'll barf on you every once in a while, but it washes out, and you move on. Give them a lot of affection, and they'll make your heart sing."

She must have shown her skepticism.

"Trust me on that." He crouched down in front of her. "You can't mess up love, can you?"

She met his eyes—noting that they were a light blue—more of a gray—but playful, and bright. There was far more to this man than hula girls and sandals with socks. Glinda couldn't help it. "If you're retired, what are you doing here?"

"I volunteer here three days a week. Rocking babies. Changing diapers. Saving discomfited grandmas."

"I hardly qualify as a grandma." She shook her head slowly. "Probably something closer to a family friend, or perhaps an adoptive aunt."

"Oh, I don't think so." He grinned, placing a hand with a little too much familiarity on her knee. "I think you're going to be a kick-butt grandma once you get the hang of it. This kid is going to worship you."

And then, with a final pat, he stood. "Well, I'd better go." Taking a step back towards the bassinet, he began to gather up the soiled items, wrapping them all up in one of the blankets he'd used as a changing pad. Once he was finished, he paused, looking at Glinda again. "You'll be okay?"

Glinda glanced down at the baby once more before raising her eyes to his. "I think so."

"Remember what I said—you can't mess up if you just love him."

"Okay." The baby's weight felt right in her arms—his warmth welcome. And without warning, Glinda felt a strange sensation fill her—like a light that started as a pinprick and then expanded to fill a room. Was this what it felt like to finally know where one belonged? She closed her eyes against the joy, as if she could hold it in. And when it became apparent that she could not, she turned her attention back towards her rescuer. "I'll remember that."

He'd been watching her, and he didn't look away when she met his gaze. But a lazy expression of warmth passed over his features as he tucked the bundle under his arm. "All right then. See you around."

Somehow, she found the words she needed. "Thank you. So very much."

"No problem." His smile was more guarded this time—more private. Turning, he moved the curtain aside and aimed himself for the door.

But Glinda had to know. "Wait—please."

He stopped, then turned, eyes wide as he waited for her to speak.

"Who are you?"

"William McBean." He flicked at the name tag at his waist. "But everyone just calls me 'Bean'."

"Bean?"

"Take away the 'Mc' part of my last name. You're left with 'Bean'. That's what people have called me since my boot camp days."

"You were military."

"I retired a full-bird Colonel."

"I can hardly see you fighting battles."

"I waged a different kind of war." He lowered his chin conspiratorially. "I was a chaplain."

"A chaplain." Somehow, that fit.

"A good one, too, I might add." This said without a hint of arrogance. "And you?"

"Glinda Baldrich." She hoped she hadn't answered too quickly. "Administrative Assistant to General Jack O'Neill at the Pentagon."

"Wordsmith, quilter, and now Grandma extraordinaire?"

Glinda didn't know how to answer that. And she noticed with a start that the shower had stopped running.

Bean had, too. He cast a look towards the bathroom before focusing on her again. "You'll be sticking around for a while, right?"

"I believe so."

"Good. I still have to teach you how to care for his umbilical stump."

"That sounds _very_ interesting." Glinda found a nonexistent piece of lint to brush off her arm, attempting to not appear too pleased at the prospect. "I can't wait."

"Me either." Bean placed his fingers on the door handle, drawing it partially open. "After all. The sharing of knowledge is its own reward."

And she hazarded another look at the man, at his ridiculous sandals, and his shining pate, and could no more contain her smile as she could have willingly put the baby down, just then.

"Yes." She nodded. "Yes, it is."


	4. The Name of the Game

Okay-so I guess this one wasn't quite finished, after all. I'm sorry if this is an annoyance to anyone, but I didn't want to upload a whole new story. I apologize for the inconvenience. Thanks so much for your patience with me.

And this time, I promise that the kid gets named.

_**Meeting the Bean**_

_**The Name of the Game**_

"How'd it go?"

The bathroom door had opened on a cloud of steam, and Glinda lifted her gaze to see the Colonel emerging—deliberately—perhaps even a little hesitantly—her careful progress surely due to the difficulty of the birth, which Glinda understood had been quite dramatic. But she did look better—with her damp hair combed back behind her ears, and a freshly scrubbed shine to her face. And the pair of striped men's pajama bottoms and over-sized Air Force tee-shirt shone as a vast improvement to the dull, thin hospital robes she'd worn earlier.

Glinda met the question with a smile. "As you can see, we're getting along all right." The baby squirmed in her arms, squawking a bit before opening his tiny mouth in a wide yawn.

"See?" Sam's face gleamed a bit triumphant. "I told you that you'd be fine."

But Glinda could only bite her lip to keep from grinning outright. Surely it was indecent to be so busy doing absolutely nothing—and surely she shouldn't be quite so gleeful doing it.

"Was there someone else here?" Sam peeked at the door and then at the bassinet, and finally back at Glinda. "I thought I heard another voice."

Struggling not to blush, Glinda summoned some decorum. "A very kind volunteer by the name of William. He brought the baby's bed back."

"William? I haven't met him yet."

"Tall. Older gentleman. Large, with graying hair. Balding."

Sam thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged. "Well, whoever he is, I'm glad we have the bassinet back. I forgot to take the diapers and wipes out before they took it to clean it out—some genius I am, right?"

"Well, no bother. We managed." Glinda indicated the baby, who started squirming again. "Although I think he's getting tired of me."

"He's probably hungry." Sam pushed a strand of damp hair back behind her ear. "It's been a couple of hours, and I'm supposed to feed him frequently or the milk won't come in."

"How peculiar." Glinda frowned. "Surely the milk doesn't just appear—it must be acquired from somewhere."

"No." A tiny wrinkle appeared over the Colonel's nose. "I'm breast-feeding him. In the beginning, there's not real milk—it's a different substance called colostrum—high in protein and other nutrients, but there isn't much of it. The real stuff doesn't come in for a few days." She stopped short and then crinkled her nose on frown. "And I'm probably well into the 'too much information' bracket, aren't I?"

A distant bit of knowledge tickled at the back of Glinda's mind. "Beestings. First milk. At least, that's what they call it for cattle. I had no idea that it was the same for people." Aware that she probably appeared unnaturally fascinated, she turned her expression apologetic. "I beg your pardon, ma'am. Of course I'm not equating you to a cow."

"Oh—you're not too far off." With a wry sound, Sam rounded the end of the bed and leaned over to peer at her baby. "I do feel a bit like livestock these days. Stupid livestock, at that. You think you know everything about life, the world, and the universe, and then one of these little critters pops out and turns you into a complete idiot."

Glinda juggled the bundle briefly before lifting her arms to proffer the child to his mother. "I'm sure that you will learn everything that you need to know in short time. You have always shown yourself to be proficient and capable when it came to learning new technologies and developing new aptitudes."

As she gathered her child close, Sam fanned her fingers under his head to support his neck as she balanced herself to sit on the bed. "Some things are easy. Molecular biology is cake. Figuring the decay rate of trinium alloys when exposed to cosmic gasses—no problem. Calculating possible neutron radiation transfer from a device to its target is like shooting fish in a bucket." She scooted back on the bed. "Babies? Wow. That's another story."

Glinda's playful side emerged. "Come now, are they more difficult than the disposal of a sun?"

"Pinky," Sam breathed a long sigh. "You've been hanging around Jack too much."

Sitting back in her chair, Glinda folded her hands in her lap, watching as the Colonel scooted back on to the hospital bed and arranged herself. She knew she should leave—knew she should allow the new mother some privacy and perhaps some rest, but she felt it might be awkward to simply rise and exit. And she hadn't yet presented her gift. Gauging the reaction she'd gotten for the gigantic log cabin quilt she'd given them a few months ago, she felt sure that the gift she'd made for the baby would also be well-received.

In fact, on her way out the door this morning, she'd tucked a fabric marker into her purse so that she could properly pen an inscription on the label she'd sewn to the quilt's reverse side.

Once she learned his name.

Sam had laid a pillow in the nest of her crossed legs, onto which she deposited her son. She loosened the wrapped blanket and checked his diaper, appeared to be satisfied, and then lifted him into her arms. Where she paused—looking intensely uncomfortable.

"Do you need something?" Glinda straightened. "Could I get you another pillow, perhaps?"

"No. Thank you." Sam's eyes narrowed in contemplation. "It's just that I need to feed him—and I'm nursing—and—" The Colonel's voice trailed off.

Understanding whooshed down into Glinda's somewhat muddled mind. With a rapidity that she wasn't sure she still possessed, she stood. "Of course you'd want your privacy. I'll leave. My goodness—my stay was run out anyway. I'm so sorry. I'm such a ninny, sometimes."

"No—please—"

But Sam's words went unheeded as Glinda whirled in search of her purse, in search of escape.

"Glinda."

Sam had used her Colonel voice—and Glinda found herself coming to attention. Slowly, she turned, facing the bed and its occupants. For some reason, she felt like she should apologize for her previous apology, but that seemed silly. The Colonel didn't seem to be upset—but rather her expression appeared more determined than anything else. Glinda frowned. In desperation, she said the only thing that came to mind. "Unless there is something else that you needed, ma'am?"

Sam shook her head slowly. "Well, for one thing—please call me Sam."

"I already call you 'Sam'."

"No, you don't." The Colonel frowned. "You call me 'ma'am', and 'Colonel', but not by my name."

"I mean you no disrespect."

"Glinda—you don't need to worry about showing me respect." Sam's brows rose. "You know that Jack and I think of you as family."

"I know."

"I'm not sure you do." The pause seemed apprehensive, somehow—but the Colonel continued, anyway. "Glinda—neither Jack nor I have much other family. The closest I have is my brother, and he's—kind of difficult. Jack's parents are both gone, and he was an only child, and my parents died long ago."

"I know. I'm so sorry."

"And you've been exactly what we've needed." Sam caught Glinda's eye in an expression of frank honesty. "You've been great for Jack—I know he's hard to deal with—I speak from absolute experience." She looked down at the baby. "And without you—well—I'm not sure that either of us would be here."

But Glinda had nothing to say to that—at least nothing that wouldn't turn her into a blubbering loon. She lowered her face to focus on her feet, and their simple heels, trying not to wonder how she'd allowed all of this to matter as much as it did.

"I owe you, Glinda. More than I can ever repay. And we need you. Even if all our parents were still around, and we were flush with relatives, we'd still need you." Sam tilted her head—peering at Glinda from beneath her lashes. "And I think that you just might need us, too."

Glinda couldn't help but look up, then, and was astonished at the sincerity she saw in the younger woman's eyes.

And, oh! But the doubts that burgeoned up within her—wasn't it every older woman's fear that she was making a nuisance of herself? That her presence was tolerated more than desired? With a little shake of her gray curls, Glinda frowned. "I just don't want to be a bother."

"Never." Sam's voice came across the room gently—softly—and so very sincere. "You'll _never_ be a bother. You're filling a place in our lives that's been empty for a very long time. Too long, to tell you the truth. But I sometimes forget to ask you what you're okay with. I suppose it's the military officer in me—I order people around too often."

"No, you don't."

"Oh, yes I do." The Colonel grinned. "And I'm all right with who I am, but I didn't want to make you uncomfortable—what with whipping out boobs and all."

There it was—and for some reason, Glinda's heart broke a little—knowing that it was concern for _her_ rather than any kind of need for privacy that had caused the new mother such consternation. She supposed that it was partly the newness of the relationship—and of the situation—that were at fault. But, with a sinking in her soul, she recognized that own failings had also led to this discomfort. Glinda knew that she exuded the character traits of a fussbudget. It was no wonder that others viewed her as cold, and prudish.

Understanding drifted between the two women—a full silence broken only when the baby suddenly began to cry in staccato bursts. Sam picked him up and situated herself on the bed, then took a moment to adjust her clothing and raise her child to nurse. He latched on heavily, with a frantic spate of exaggerated slurping noises. Once he quieted a bit, Sam continued. "I just don't want you to feel obligated to us. I don't want you doing anything out of a sense of duty, or because you feel that you owe us."

Glinda couldn't answer past the emotion that constricted her throat.

"I want you to be comfortable around us—" Here Sam paused, a self-effacing smile tickling at her lips. "And here I go again—telling you what I want. When I should be asking you what _you_ want."

Her voice tight, the secretary gathered herself to answer. "I only desire to be of some use. To be here when you need me."

"Well, be prepared. Because we're going to need you a lot." Sam eyes brightened. "And this baby here needs a grandma."

And that slow warmth came flooding back over her—that simple joy that had overcome her earlier, when Mr. McBean had knelt before her while she'd held the newest O'Neill. For a moment, she fought against the feeling—tried to hide the rush of heat that flowed through her. But then, in a burst of absolute clarity, she let it come—let herself feel it—all the happy, confusing, frightening, blessed excitement that she'd been squishing deep down within her for ever so long.

Because what Mr. McBean had said was true on so _very_ many levels.

_You can't mess up love._

And—Stars and Garters!—she found that she believed it. Such terror had coursed through her when she'd realized it at first—as she'd sat on that ship after her adventure with Sam and pondered as to why she'd been allowed to return to them—why she'd chosen to come back.

But the truth was, she loved these people. As she'd never loved anyone since her father had passed on. As she'd never allowed herself to feel about anyone else, brief romances notwithstanding.

Because in all honesty, she'd probably had some chances, along the way—opportunities to allow people past the proud exterior she'd so ruthlessly brandished. Maybe that was why it had been so easy for Bruce to leave—he must have found her defenses exhausting to deal with.

And even though her regrets were few, she had to acknowledge that it had, in a large way, been her decision to remain alone. Her solitude had been a conscious act—a choice she'd made to build all those barriers, to erect all those walls—to keep anyone from breaching them through promises or emotion.

Just as she was now making a conscious choice to tear them all down.

With a start, she wondered that it was even possible for her to make this change—to open a sealed-off heart. But the vision before her—of mother and child—_daughter and grandchild?_—beckoned to her like nothing else ever had. And as Sam stroked her baby's cheek with one long, exquisite finger, Glinda felt the first of the bricks fall.

"Well, since he needs one, then I would be honored to fill the bill." She blinked back the tears that had gathered behind her lids, squaring her shoulders. Deliberately, she stepped backwards and sat into the chair that she'd recently vacated. "Provided that, eventually, I am allowed to learn his name."

Glinda peeked at the Colonel, only to find the younger woman gazing back at her. And her smile—well, Glinda couldn't help but answer it in kind.

Just then, the baby disengaged himself and began working himself into a fuss. Sam adjusted her clothing again, then raised the baby to her shoulder and began pounding methodically on his back.

"So, we're okay?"

"Of course." Glinda nodded, blinking rapidly. "Of course we are. And I'm so pleased, Samantha."

"Me too." She said, between thumps. "And eventually, we _will_ name this little guy. Jack and I are still trying to figure that out."

"Is my name being used in vain?" The General's voice came from the door way, where he stood, poking his head around the curtain. "I mean—a guy has a whole planet to save, and he comes through the door to hear his two favorite women maligning him."

"Not maligning." Sam didn't let up on the thumping. "Discussing."

"Good things?" He pushed past the curtain, debonair in his monkey suit, hat in hand. Throwing a faux salute at Glinda, he stopped at Sam's bed side and reached for the baby even as he dropped his hat on the rumpled sheets. "Let me. It takes a professional."

He reached into the bassinet and grabbed a receiving blanket, which he draped over his shoulder, and then balanced the baby against it and continued the thwacking. Within seconds, the child had erupted forth with a belch that would have registered on the Richter scale.

Jack beamed as he wiped something off of the infant's face. "That's my boy. Damn, that makes a dad proud."

Glinda tried not to harrumph. "A boy still without a name."

His smile faded into a churlish grin. "That's Sam's fault."

"My fault?" Stretching her legs out on the bed, the Colonel had reclined against her pillows. "Why do you say that?"

"You won't let me name him after your dad."

Glinda couldn't help asking. "Why not, Samantha?"

Her sigh was evidence that this conversation had been had several times over. "My brother Mark and his wife named their last son Jacob—she was pregnant with their third child when my father died. He turned out to be a boy. I just don't think that first cousins should have the same first name. It's confusing."

The General had started to sway from side to side, cradling the baby to his chest. "Then what?"

"'Carter'." Sam's brows rose. "Name him 'Carter'. Then we wouldn't have to hyphenate."

"But I don't want to name him that."

"Why not, sir?" Glinda's brows flew upwards. "That sounds like a perfectly amenable solution."

For a brief moment, the hospital room hung heavy with silence, and then Jack moved over towards the bed and looked down at his wife. "Is he done eating?"

She answered him with a shake of her head and her arms raised towards the bundle he held. "You know, you still haven't answered that question to me, either."

He glanced at his secretary before returning his attention to his wife. "I've told you."

"No, you haven't." With a few surreptitious moves, she readied herself, and the dedicated slurping continued. Looking up at her husband, she cocked a brow. "So spill it, dad."

The General looked down at his hands, and then began fiddling with his cuffs. Some of the stitching had come loose on the edges, and Glinda made a mental note to get that attended to even as she glanced up to see his countenance. Humorous—pensive—wry—how did he manage to pack so many conflicting emotions into one expression?

But the face he raised to his wife was completely honest, and just a little bit embarrassed. He took a deep fortifying breath before starting. "I don't want to name our son 'Carter', because that's what I called you. During all that time—when I wasn't allowed to call you anything else."

Glinda had heard about those years—nearly a decade of living with a want that could not be assuaged. She'd seen the pain that had flashed through the other woman's eyes when she'd spoken of that period. And she'd seen how much the General had missed his wife as she'd fulfilled her obligations off-world. So much love—so much time apart, either through duty or distance. And consequently, how much sense it made—that he would want to keep something of his wife to himself.

Sam must have understood, because her voice was gentle when she responded. "But you can call me whatever you want now."

"I can. But 'Carter'—it's still _you_. My name for you." He shrugged, then shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets. "It's how I thought of you—how I still think of you sometimes. And back then, I did a _lot_ of thinking."

Sam's lovely eyes grew wide as she gazed at her spouse. "You sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Well,then, we're back to square one."

Jack snagged a rolling stool with his foot and wheeled it over to where he stood. Lowering himself onto it, he scooted forward and folded his hands on the sheets. "Well, square two, actually. We've at least discussed it."

Sam sighed. "We have." By way of explanation, she glanced over at Glinda. "We've gone over all the options. We want the name to mean something, and yet nothing seems right. If we name him after one of our team, then someone else gets left out. It's a conundrum."

"And then Sam bought this book." Jack's eyes widened. "It was the size of the Hindenberg."

"It was _not_."

"It was, too." He raised a hand and scrubbed it over his face. "There were roughly three gazillion names in it, all of them unisex and trendy."

"You're such a liar." Sam shook her head on a small laugh. "Don't believe him, Glinda. The names were perfectly fine."

"Shelby? Adrian? Lyle?" His brows crept upwards. "Can you imagine naming a poor defenseless child any of those names?"

"A woman came to the Quilt Guild meeting the other night complaining that her daughter had named her newborn 'Tuesday'." Glinda pursed her lips, remembering. "I wasn't impressed."

But bless her, Sam actually sounded intrigued. "Boy or girl?"

"Exactly." Jack pointed at his wife in triumph. "You can't tell, can you?"

"And what's worse is when they name a child 'Taylor' or 'Windsor' or 'Brook', and then dress them in yellow." Glinda held up both hands, palms out. "And then they have the gall to be offended when you inquire as to their child's gender."

"See?" The General smirked. "She's _so_ on my side."

"I never said that the baby shouldn't have a _good_ name." Sam looked down at the child she held, her expression just a tidge sad. "I just really want him to have the _right_ name."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a wad of paper. "Yes, well. The Social Security Administration wants us to do it sooner rather than later."

"I know that, too."

"So, just in case you shot down 'Jacob' for good—I had an idea."

"Okay." Sam raised the baby to her shoulder and began the burping process anew. "Go for it."

Jack looked over at Glinda with a smug smile as he unfolded the page and held it up to show her. "This is why I'm the General."

Sam snorted. Indelicately.

Which O'Neill blithely ignored. "At my meeting this morning, they were discussing some kind of scientific mumbo-jumbo, and it hit me."

"What hit you?"

"The perfect name." He held up the paper. "There was this physicist there—and he blathering on about new weapons advances in friction and charges and stuff, but he had this cool book there with the rest of his crap."

"Jack." With an immense amount of longsuffering in her voice, Sam raised a hand to rub at her forehead. "Please tell me that you didn't steal this man's book."

"Of course not." He held up his hand. "Just the one page."

"Oh, good grief." Sam rolled her eyes again.

"Do you want to hear this, or not?"

Her sigh spoke volumes. "Go ahead."

He glanced from Sam to Glinda and back to Sam again before holding the paper up. "'Although William Watson, an English scientist discovered the same thing independently, Franklin was credited with identifying and improving upon the understanding of these forces, declaring, in 1747, that this 'electric charge exists of two types of electric forces, an attractive force and a repulsive force'. He would later name them positive and negative forces, and label them with their commonly recognized symbols, the plus and minus signs. This was a significant moment in the understanding of both electrical and magnetic sciences'."

Perfect silence descended around them, and Glinda looked nervously from the General to his wife. His dark eyes were careful, expectant, his expression carrying a hint of exultation, a hint of a question. Nodding her head deliberately, Sam's lips curved in a slow, private smile.

Apparently, she had understood whatever it was that her husband had said.

And it was equally apparent that the pair had completely forgotten that Glinda existed.

"So, you see? Magnets. Like us." His voice subdued, O'Neill waggled his finger between the two of them. "You're attractive, I'm repulsive. Positive. Negative. Opposites. But nothing could keep us apart, right? We're magnets."

Glinda watched as the Colonel's face softened, as her smile turned deeper—more intimate—her expression more than a simple reflection of the present, but rather a moment's view into the prism of their collected past.

"So, I think that we should name him 'Benjamin'." Jack lowered his chin, his dark eyes unreadable, his voice low. "Benjamin Carter O'Neill. Because, you know, it's a magnet thing."

And Sam looked down at where her son nestled against her shoulder. Gently, she ran a finger along his ear, across the nub of his nose, and through his dark, shiny curls. "Benjamin. Ben O'Neill."

"You think?"

She shrugged, simply—without fanfare—as these two people seemed to do everything. "Yeah. I do."

The General rounded the bed to where his wife sat, holding his child. He sat next to her, hip to hip, one knee hiked up on the mattress next to Sam. "So it's settled?"

Her nod sent her hair tumbling over her shoulder. "I think so."

O'Neill lifted a hand to frame his wife's face, and then leaned in to kiss her—thoroughly, however how briefly. Grinning as he raised his head, he ran his thumb along the curve of his wife's cheek before patting it with an impish smirk. "And that's why I'm the General."

"No." Sam's dimples appeared in gusto. "_That's_ why it's your turn to change him."

She jostled around a little, handing the newly-named Benjamin to his father, before turning to Glinda. "What do you think, Grandma?"

"About the name?" The secretary straightened in the chair, refolding her hands, fighting back the surge of emotion that threatened to overflow again. Gazing momentarily at Sam, she turned her focus to the bassinet, where the General had deposited little Benjamin and started unwrapping him. "I think it's wonderful."

"And timely, at that."

The new voice came from the curtain, where a remarkably shiny head had poked around the panel. In the jovial manner he'd previously sported, Bean pushed his way through the curtain. "So—the gang's all here? I think I've only met the lovely Miss Glinda and Baby O'Neill."

Jack glanced up from his chore. Hands stilling on his task, his eyes narrowed. "And you are?"

"William McBean." Touching a finger to his identification badge at his waist, Bean moved further inward, stopping a few feet from Glinda's chair. He met her eye with a familiar wink before turning his attention back towards the General. Lifting a solid hand, he displayed what he held there. "I come offering paperwork."

Glinda tried to ignore the flush she felt in her cheeks. Old ladies didn't blush—and yet here she sat, her face as red as a baboon, smiling like a simpleton. With a herculean effort, she pulled herself together and stood. "Mr. McBean is a volunteer here. He came in with the bassinet while Samantha was in the shower. And I must say that he was rather helpful in the events that followed a rather foul diaper malfunction."

"Diaper malfunction?" O'Neill flicked open the wipes and withdrew several before lifting a sarcastic eyebrow in her direction. "Who are you, Janet Jackson?"

"Jack, be nice." Sam scooted to the edge of the bed and sat with her legs hanging off the edge. Her gaze dancing between Glinda and Bean, she nodded towards the papers. "Are those the forms we need for discharge?"

"Yes, ma'am." Bean handed them to her, then stood back, rocking slightly on his feet. "Is there anything else that I can get for you?"

"Nope." Jack swapped diapers and rapidly fastened the clean one on. Pausing, he raised a speculative eye to the volunteer. "We're good."

"Okay." Bean's gray eyes raked over towards the woman next to him with a jaunty gleam. "Although, Miss Glinda here has asked me to help her learn a few baby care techniques. If you wouldn't mind, I could show her a few things while you work on filling those out."

O'Neill scowled. "We can teach her—"

"Jack." Her intelligent blue eyes frankly assessing, Sam stopped her husband. "Come help me with this stuff. Let Bean show her what she wants to know."

"What could Bean, here, show her that I couldn't?"

"He has seven children of his own, General O'Neill." Oh heavens, she was blurting information. And yet, Glinda couldn't seem to stop her tongue. "And eighteen grandchildren."

O'Neill seemed to be trying to ascertain exactly how high his eyebrow could go. "Eighteen, you say?"

"And he's a chaplain." Glinda raised her hand to her lips, but her nerves compelled her onward. "Retired, of course."

"Of course he is." Sarcasm oozed over O'Neill's words like honey on toast.

"Shut up, Jack." Sam stood and crossed the room to the bassinet. Grasping it, she wheeled it over to where Glinda stood next to Bean. With a gracious nod, she set it in front of them. "Mr. McBean, I would be grateful if you would teach Glinda whatever she wants to know about caring for Ben."

Tilting a look at Glinda, Bean's expression grew curious. "So, who will I be teaching? Aunt Glinda? Or just plain Glinda?"

"'Miss Baldrich'." Jack looked at them from beneath his lowered brows. "You can call her 'Miss Baldrich'."

With a slight clearing of her throat, Glinda steeled her spine and drew herself up to her full height. Pride and gratitude flowed through her as she cast a determined look around the room. Angling a glance to the man at her side, she then faced her boss without hesitancy, without discomfiture, without any reservation whatsoever. "Actually, General. It's 'Grandma', now."


End file.
